


slivers of hope

by londoneyedgirl



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, District 12 Harry Potter, District 2 Tom Riddle, M/M, POV Alternating, Rating May Change, Slow Build, Slow Burn, no beta we die like men, the major character death isn't harry or tom
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-03-09
Packaged: 2019-10-27 23:26:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17776238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/londoneyedgirl/pseuds/londoneyedgirl
Summary: Sentimentally, Harry later would come to think that it’s his parents’ spirits that guide him from the moment he stepped onto that podium until the end of his Games. “I’m Harry Potter, son of James Potter.” The heart that beats inside his chest seems to violently pulse, making him ache. He looks straight into the camera, eyes bright with fake mirth - just the Capitol's brand, really - and his lips curls into a big, captivating smile that makes the whole crowd gasp. “And I'm going to win this year’s Hunger Games.”alternatively, the hunger games au we didn't need but i wanted to write anyway





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i started writing this because i felt like tomarry needed a hunger games au? and for whatever reason i had to try to be the one to do it, i guess  
> it's a mess but idk enjoy?

“Tom Marvolo Riddle, Jr!” The place erupts with noise, and smiles take over most of the faces in the city hall - the only exceptions seem to be Draco Malfoy, sullen-looking as he’d been since he found out he’d never compare to this year’s selected District 2 male tribute; Tom Riddle Sr, who looked pleased enough, as expected; and Tom Riddle Jr himself, looking as unreachable, as untouchable as he always did, although with a twinkle of pride, or perhaps amusement, to his eyes.

He’d known he’d be district 2’s tribute beforehand, of course. The selection had been announced a month prior, and he’d had to learn how to deal with double the attention he was used to - and that was saying a lot, considering there had been big expectations on him since he was eleven - which, ultimately, he supposed it was for the best. That is what expects him at the Capitol, both before and after he wins this year’s Hunger Games.

Not all knew he’d be the selected male tribute, and Tom really didn’t care about the mechanisms of making that happen. President Grindelwald had asked simply that they did not make it so blatant that they were breaking the rules and that their tributes were prepared for the Games before the reaping. All the people here cares about is having a Champion, to get even more gratifications from the Capitol; what Tom cares about now - all he has to care about, really - is the Games, and winning it. All else is just white noise.

For a fleeting second, as Tom stands next to District 2’s female tribute, Bellatrix Lestrange, and in front of his district’s whole population, his thoughts drift to his mother. Would Merope be proud of him, now? She’s been gone for nearly seven years, but if Tom closes his eyes he can still see her dark hair flowing as she turned around, the hint of a slightly unbalanced grin on her lips on the morning of the day she died. She, who’d turned out to be a Capitol traitor, a _rebel_ \- would she be proud of him?

Or would she deem him a failure, supporting the very system that murdered her?

An unusual ache on his chest tells him the latter is more likely.

The cold hands of the escort, Dolores Umbridge, touch his elbow, snapping Tom out of his self-induced and pointless trip down useless thoughts. He doesn’t even compute the touch long enough for him to be bothered by her daring to do so, but it’s enough to bring him back to the here and now, and to the great things he’s destined to.

The cameras are on him, and he knows that all of the Capitol, if not all of Panem, is falling for him. His pale skin, his black hair, his dark eyes, the charm with which he purses his lips and licks them before speaking is alluring, and he knows it. He’s well-aware of how important the power of appearance can be; of being well-mannered, of being attractive, of being desired and admired and envied. He knows it.

All the noise he needs to hear is his own thoughts, and the crowd screaming his name with adoration as he introduces himself.

The rest is white noise.

-

“Ronald Weasley!”

Silence always follows the reaping announcements here in District 12, but this time the silence seems especially deafening.

Everyone knows the Weasleys. Huge family, theirs, and so many kids. Two had been reaped before - Bill and Percy, two Games in a row - and another had lost an arm in the mines. They had rotten luck, some people said, but their kindness speaks loud in all of the district. They all knew their rotten luck came from the amount of times the kids entered their name, the older ones never caring about risking their own life as long as they could help feed their siblings and their parents.

Rotten luck they might have, but everyone acknowledges that they’re good people, and real life fighters, too.

But they were no competitors for the Hunger Games.

Ronald Weasley, their second to youngest child, would be the third Weasley reaped in a short span of ten years.

‘ _Would be_ ’ being key-words.

“I volunteer!” The words slip out of Harry’s mouth without him doing any proper thinking, but he still means them when he repeats himself after thinking it through in the short span of a split second. “I volunteer as tribute!”

Harry didn’t give the peacekeepers enough time to even find Ron in the mess of people. As Ron clings to Harry’s arm, short nails digging into his skin, saying “ _no_ ” and “ _Harry, don’t_ ” and “ _you bloody idiot!_ ”, Harry raises his free arm, bringing attention to him at the same time as he tries to take his arm out of Ron’s strong grasp. With a bit of struggling, he frees his arm and pulls away from Ron, trying his hardest to give him an encouraging smile before walking to the podium.

It’s all very simple, in Harry’s mind: he has no family. He has friends, and he knows they’ll all be very angry at him soon, but most of them will also be relieved. If Ron was reaped, his family would be wrecked. There are still two years of being in danger of entering the Hunger Games. Harry has nothing left to lose.

Harry spares a glance in Hermione’s way, knowing he’d find angry understanding in her distinguished features. And he does.

As soon as Harry steps onto the podium, Rita Skeeter is pulling him by the elbow, bringing him closer to the microphone, gleeful expression cold in its cruel essence. “Here we have this year’s male tribute! And he’s a volunteer, too!” Her smile is disturbingly shark-like when she turns her head to Harry. “Introduce yourself, dear!”

There’s no easy way to do this. Harry thinks back to those tapes of his father’s edition of the Hunger Games that Sirius had showed him, a few years back. His father hadn’t volunteered, his name - only inserted the obligatory amount of times - had simply been picked out of the bucket. The deal he’d struck with Sirius kept Harry’s godfather from volunteering in his place, but in some frames Harry could see how close Sirius had gotten to breaking the promise they’d made to each other.

Harry remembers the way James spoke in his presentation: he seemed strong, assured. It didn’t even seem like he’d been reaped, his confidence compared by the Capitol pundits to that of careers. James, Sirius had told Harry, admitted later that it all had been fake bravado. His expression had seemed unaffected, but he hadn’t even processed properly what was going on at the moment; yet somewhere, deep in his subconscious, he knew the Capitol wanted a good show - knew that he’d only have a chance if he played the game the way the game had to be played.

He was only fifteen, and he won his edition.

Harry is a year older than his father had been when he went into the Arena and killed four of the tributes, coming out a victor. He’d done that with only four years of amateur training with Sirius by Regulus, Sirius’ older brother. Harry has been trained by Sirius since he was six, taught to protect himself in the case of lightning struck twice in the Potter family.

And it didn’t, but it might as well.

Sentimentally, Harry later would come to think that it’s his parents’ spirits that guide him from the moment he stepped onto that podium until the end of his Games. “I’m Harry Potter, son of James Potter.” The heart that beats inside his chest seems to violently pulse, making him ache. He looks straight into the camera, eyes bright with fake mirth - just the Capitol's brand, really - and his lips curls into a big, captivating smile that makes the whole crowd gasp. “And I'm going to win this year’s Hunger Games.”

_For Mom. For Dad. For Sirius. For Ron and Hermione._

The only way to survive the Games is by winning it, and he’d win it.

He’d win it, or die trying.

-

Tom gets three visitors, as he’d expected.

The first is Slughorn. He’d been assigned as a mentor to Tom for a year, and taken a serious liking to Tom since then. Tom doesn’t particularly care much for the man. He’s incredibly great at what he does - poison-based weapons and traps is what he specializes in - which had given Tom the chance to learn a lot, but his ego turned out to be incredibly bothersome once Tom had gotten what he wanted from him. Luckily, the few minutes that the peacekeepers give them guarantees Tom doesn’t have to spend any more time in Slughorn’s presence, and the older man waves him off with bids of a great competition.

The second visitor is his father.

Tom Riddle Sr is an imposing man. Tom is taller than he is, but Tom Sr always moves as though he’s the tallest one, bigger than all others, and that’s enough to intimidate even a more powerful man - just ask Lucius Malfoy.

Tom Riddle Sr has also never learned how to be a father, or to even care, for that matter. He taught Tom not to feel, and Merope counter-taught him to feel things, regularly.

In the end, Tom Sr made sure Merope could no longer undo his work on Tom Jr.

“Don’t embarrass us.” Tom Sr uses his staff to pointedly hit the ground at the end of the sentence. “There’s a lot at stake here; a lot of investment. You know what you have to do.”

Tom only nods. It wasn’t a question, and he’s found that, in general but most of all with Tom Sr, it’s best to speak the least possible.

With a nod, Tom Sr turns to leave.

It’s been less than a minute.

Tom supposes he should be hurt or angry, by what he knows are normal family standards, but all he can think of is ‘ _good fucking riddance_ ’.

He almost worries he’d said it out loud when Tom Sr completely stills with his hand on the doorknob, and slightly turns his head to speak over his shoulder. “Don’t die.”

“I won’t.” His tone is steel, and he means it.

Tom Sr deems it good enough and leaves.

The last visitor is Lucius Malfoy, the Mayor of District 2. The chat is only a bit longer than Tom’s with Tom Sr, and in the same tone. Malfoy unknowingly parrots Tom Sr’s demand that he doesn’t die, and Tom simply raises an eyebrow. “Thanks for the advice.”

With a pointed look, Malfoy turns and leaves silently.

Tom sits on a nearby couch and waits for Umbridge to escort him to the next place he’s supposed to go. In the meantime, he relaxes enough to allow a moment for himself, and his eyes drop to the ring in his finger.

The Gaunt family ring. The only thing he’d managed to keep of his mother’s.

He’s not a sentimental sort of man. Feelings are something he avoids as much as he can, because they won’t get him anywhere in life, in the arena, and much less with Tom Sr. And yet, he’d fought to keep the ring. It was only appealing to a heritage pride, a family lineage sort of thing that got Tom Sr to allow Tom to keep the ring, and even so, Tom would very rarely allow himself a weak moment like this, in which he looks at the ring his mother wore since his uncle had died, and until the day she met her end.

His mother had been against the Games, he knew. It was what got her killed in the first place. But she loved him; she was the only one who ever did. And who probably ever would.

His hand closed tightly over the other, the ring cold against the skin of his palm.

It might not be much, but he’ll win it for her. It is all he has to give.

-

The Weasleys and Hermione try to see him all at once, but settle for splitting into three groups, which makes it both easier and harder. 

Molly and Arthur cry, in what he knows is a crazy mix of sadness and relief and gratitude. They struggle to find the words, but Harry only smiles softly at them, comforting even though he’s the one who’s going to what they believe is his certain death.

“Thank you, Harry.” Molly manages, eventually, and hugs him tight, arms wrapped around him in that heartwarming way she always hugs. Molly is the only motherly figure he’d ever had in his life; his own mother having died when he was only one year old, Molly is more important to him than she probably knows.

Arthur has also been important to him, but there’s no one quite like Molly.

“Don’t worry.” The moment the words slip out of his mouth, he realizes how silly they sound. Of course they’ll worry. But he also knows that they understand the meaning behind what he’s said - he’s going to try to win it. He might fail, but he’ll give it his all.

“Give them hell, Harry.” Arthur pats him on the shoulder, before pulling him in for a quick hug as the peacekeepers urge them to come out. “Don’t forget that we believe in you.”

Fred, George, Charlie and Ginny all come together. Fred and George try to lighten the mood, but it’s a bad enough situation that not even the twins can make it not so bad. They thank him, and Harry can barely hold himself together when Ginny wraps her arms around him. She likes him, he knows, but she also knows he doesn’t feel the same. He hugs her with all he has. He’s always seen her as a little sister, and he’s glad she’s safe.

“Watch out for Ron.” George warns, one last attempt at making them all smile together. “You just might not make it to the Games, is all.”

His comment startles a small chuckle out of him, and Harry shrugs. “Maybe Hermione will protect me.”

They leave wishing him good luck, and Harry dares for a second to consider the scenario in which he doesn’t make it _back home_. It leads to the feeling of a lump in his throat, which he instantly shuts it down. It’s better if he thinks about this later, when he has _privacy_.

Hermione’s body hits his and steals a breath out of his body when she hugs him, arms around his neck and tears hot on Harry’s shoulder. And then, suddenly, she pulls away, eyes on his. “You’re going to make it, aren’t you?” 

“That’s the plan.” Harry nods, and then shifts his gaze to Ron, who’s yet to speak or move at all since following Hermione into the room.

“I wanna be so mad at you.” Ron starts, raising his head to look at Harry, hands curled tightly into fists. “But I know why you did it. _I get it_. I would’ve done the same.”

Only then does Ron step closer, pulling Harry close, and they cling to each other. They were each other’s first best friends, they’ll always be.

Harry reaches for Hermione without even looking, pulling her into their hug. They stay like that for a few seconds, silently. No words can speak louder than the moment they’re sharing, the silence in which they allow themselves to dwell in all their moments together until now. “You have to come back, okay?” Hermione is the one who breaks the silence, tentative. “You have to. You have to be the best man at the wedding.”

Ron nods, tightening his hold on Harry and Hermione’s shoulders simultaneously. “And when we have a kid, we’ll have no one else as their godfather.” He punches Harry shoulder. “You better survive, Harry. I mean it.”

“I’ll do my best.” And they know that’s all he can promise.

-

“Harry! Lavender!” Hagrid stands up to meet them as soon as they make their way to the dining area of the train. He waves them closer, and once they’re near enough, he reaches a hand out to shake theirs. “I’m Rubeus Hagrid, your mentor for the games.”

Harry knows who Hagrid is. Hagrid is massively well-liked in the District. For all that he's clumsy, he's kind-hearted and tries to do his best for the district. He always takes it hard when he loses tributes, but never once does he stop trying to get them to win, even against all odds, they say.

No one expected him to win his edition, even if he was so tall and big, because of how dumb-looking Hagrid seemed. And to be fair, his killings hadn’t necessarily strategic gold, but they were enough to have the Capitol be satisfied. 

There weren’t any hopes that Hagrid would win. People didn't expect James to win, but they dared to hope; Hagrid, however, had seemed like such a lost cause, Harry was told, that every day of the Games people expected to wake up to news of his death..

Now, as the oldest and the only District 12 victor alive, he tries his hardest to stop being the only one again.

They sit down for a meal, and only then Harry realizes how hungry he is: he’d woken up late, and didn’t have time to eat lest he’d be too late for the reaping. As they eat, Hagrid asks what Harry had been waiting for him to ask: do they have any skills, can you use a weapon, how agile are you. With each question Lavender seems to shrink more and more into herself, and Harry tries to word his replies in ways that won’t make him seem prepared either, even if, in some way, he is.

Harry’s already done with eating when Rita Skeeter, their escort, walks in, an unpleasant sort of smile on her lips. “Ah, there you are! Eating, of course. You must be _very_ hungry, right?” With the obliviousness, or just plain cruelty, expected from the privileged people of the Capitol, she comes to stand next to Hagrid. “Well, eat up! The TV is ready for when you want to watch the reapings - if you go now, you’ll be able to finish it before we get to the Capitol.”

-

Watching the reaping is standard behavior for any tribute, career or not. It's the plain old know-your-enemy.

Thing is, Tom's done it, and he's not exaggerating, at least fifty times before. He's not saying he's gotten bored - there's no way he'd be getting bored _now_ , with the thrill of actually getting to go into the arena, to observe and profile and _hunt_ his own enemies. What he's saying is that when you've seen as many reapings as he's seen, he notices patterns.

And that makes the outliers stand out.

Districts 1 and 2 always have careers, and they are themselves a pattern: both tributes physically appealing, presenting with confidence and backed by a loud, _loud_ crowd. They most often win.

Districts 3, 5 and 6, mostly, have tributes who visibly don't want to be there at all, but they also present a long-suffering resigned posture, accepting and adapting to their situation, and every once in a while they get a Victor of the Games.

Districts 4, 7 and 8 mostly look deeply angry or deeply fearful: there's sometimes an in-between. They've had _some_ Victors in the past, but they're also some of the first to lose their sanity. Not that Tom thinks he can talk much about sanity, considering which district he’s from.

Districts 9, 10, 11 and 12 always, without a doubt, look completely defeated. They know they're dead meat. What was it that they used to call it, before Panem existed? Ah, _'dead man walking’_. Tom has always liked how self-aware they are.

There's only ever been two winners in 12. The time lightning struck twice in the same place. And only one of them had actually broken the patterns.

Until now.

This is the most standard group of tributes that Tom has seen, he thinks, with the exception of the _outlier_. 

Districts 1 and 2 are confident; 3 and 5 look bothered but they promise to _‘give their all’_ , as usual; while 6 has the occasional male tribute who thinks that his amateur training could ever get him close to beating careers. Tom chuckles when he sees the cocky grin on the boy's face, even if he's been reaped, and not a volunteer. He'll be a fun kill… Tom will make it so. He always likes when the cocky ones from middle districts meet their cruel, deserved ends.

District 4’s male tribute is scared, while the female tribute is angry - still pretty standard. Both tributes of District 7 and District 8’s male tribute look deeply scared, which isn't odd, but he's sure it's enforced by the ages of the reaped tributes: in some way, all three are fifteen or under. Tom is bummed for a bit: the younger ones are almost always a bore at the games and these don't look any different.

The female tribute from District 8, however, is someone Tom has a hard time reading. She's not scared, but she's also _not_ not scared; she seems both unaware and overtly aware of what is going on, and just looking at her face, trying to figure her out, gives Tom a headache, and so he ceases trying. 

Districts 9, 10 and 11 are absolutely terrified. It's a special flavor of panic, Tom finds: it's the perfect combo of all the most classic signs of fear: widened eyes, pale face, profuse amount of sweat, stammering, chattering teeth, trembling bottom lip, generalized shaking… they're done for.

They're nothing. They'll get nowhere. These are evil and cruel thoughts and they soothe Tom's cold, cold heart.

And then there's District 12.

This is when Tom's attention piques.

The girl is nothing special. Blonde, long-haired, poor-looking and shaky. She barely manages to finish her self-introduction, stuttering her way through it and sometimes speaking so low it was inaudible to hear some syllables of it.

But the male tribute, Tom thinks, is… Unsettling. He’s everything Tom wouldn’t expect of someone from _there_.

The male tribute is a volunteer and he's from District 12 - he's a _volunteer_ from _District 12,_ which doesn’t even seem like a real sentence; he doesn't look at all like he's from Twelve; and he doesn't look scared at all.

Contrary to popular belief, being scared is _good_. It's normal. It's true! Tom fully supports it. What Tom doesn't, can't, _won't_ support is the inability to hide your fear.

And District 12's male tribute knows very well how to do that.

It's no doubt an act, and a great one, too. Somewhat Finnick Odair-esque, although he doesn't know if Potter's - and he tries to remember where exactly did he hear the name Potter before - stylist will go down the sexual appeal road, instead of the cute-like behavior Potter showed on his reaping, even if he’s only sixteen. It’s not like the Capitol has ever cared about the ages of the tributes they sexualize.

“Oh, my.” Bellatrix leans in against Tom's side, and he pointedly moves away so as to put the distance back between them. “How adorable this edition's District 12 tributes are! Makes you just want to squish them, and tear their limbs apart.”

Tom had completely forgotten about the other people in the room. Not that he had forgotten that he wasn't alone - it was just that he didn't care enough about them to compute their presence. He’d learned to ignore Bellatrix early on when he joined the academy; and while he knows they’ll be useful, their mentors and escort - Rabastan, Edgecombe, and Umbridge, respectively - aren’t really useful to him _now_. 

His eyes turn back to the screen before them. Bellatrix has paused the video to back her comment up, and there Tom knows is the two District 12's tributes, but the only one he sees is Potter.

Potter really doesn't look like he's from District 12, Tom muses. He has the characteristic olive skin and wavy, dark hair, alright; but his eyes are bright, emerald-green colored. And although he is nowhere near overweight or built, his body seems strong, _healthy_ , with enough fat and muscles on his limbs. Definitely from the wealthy part of District 12 - if there’s even such a thing.

Which makes even less sense that he'd sacrifice himself - because that's what it was, a clear _sacrifice_ \- for a seemingly poorer person.

Capitol pundits call the boy 'District 12’s hope for district pride” and miss the point entirely.

He'll either crash and burn, or he’ll manage to make the best out of his promise of winning the Games - only time will tell, Tom supposes.

Outliers are more dangerous than others because you don't know what to expect from them. Being able to predict your enemy's moves is one of the best and most necessary strategies in the Games, and in cases like Potter's, there's nothing to do about it, and it frustrates Tom. All he can do is keep a close watch on the kid. Somehow, at some point, he'll show his true self, and that's when Tom will strike.

Perhaps it's the fact that he's an oddity; or maybe it's just how he seems to be everything he's not, or not supposed to be - but for some unknown reason, even after they’re done with watching the reapings, Tom can't take those bright green eyes out of his mind.

-

Usually, Harry avoids seeing reapings. He's seen a few editions’, of course, but he'd rather not. It's absurd, really: the thrill of the Capitol at the prospect of having new kids to watch commit murder and be murdered, rooting for this year's favorite like it's a sport.

Then again, to them, it probably is.

This year, however, Harry has to watch it. Even if his mentor hadn't emphatically told them of its importance, Harry was already set on doing so. Better to know the enemy than not at all.

The three of them sat on the couch in front of the TV, and Rita comes to stand behind them, which makes Harry shudder. He doesn’t trust her, not one bit; he’ll make sure to avoid saying anything important in front of her. She’s the type of person he would rather not have around, much less behind him.

“Look.” Hagrid points at the TV screen, before taking a sip of his glass of water. “It's starting.”

Harry focuses his attention on the screen. The Capitol pundits, as usual, do a lengthy introduction to this year's Games. A brief story covering the rebellion that led to the creation of the Games, a bit of ridiculous gratitude to Salazar Slytherin, the president who’d done so, and they end it by sucking up to President Grindelwald, as usual. Only then does the reaping scenes start.

District 1 is the usual as always. The male tribute is Barty Crouch Jr, son of the mayor of District 1, Barty Crouch Sr, and as he offers a crazed smile to the camera, Harry wonders if Crouch has that much trust on his son's abilities to allow him to compete in the Games - because Harry is well aware that Districts 1 and 2 don't get chosen; _they_ choose - or if he just doesn't care about his son.

The female tribute, Millicent Bulstrode, looked, somehow, both bored and jittery, playing with the lush and carefully done curl of her ponytail. As though she just _couldn't wait_ till the Games started.

District 2’s female tribute, Bellatrix Lestrange, looks completely insane, and Harry already knows she's one he does not want to be close to, in any given situation. The gleeful way she walks to the podium - even skipping as she does so, black hair bouncing along with her - makes Harry shudder, and he's glad when the camera leaves her alone.

And it goes to District 2’s male tribute.

Tom Riddle looks like the usual District 2 career: he's handsome, undeniably so, and when he speaks, there's an amount of self-assurance that most people only dream of; that only comes when you know you've been prepared for whatever is coming your way, and that at the end you'll come out on top.

But his eyes. The camera closes up on his face, highlighting his attractive appearance, and his eyes are dark as pitch, and empty. Like there's no life behind them, even if he's clearly very much alive.

Harry doesn't think he could ever be like that - that his eyes could be so completely void of feeling, or humanity. Those are the eyes of someone who's never known goodness; of someone who's never really known love, and life, and joy.

Suddenly, Harry feels lucky, even if on most days he'd hardly even consider himself so.

-

The styling crew completely _gush_ over him and Bellatrix. He doesn’t particularly care, but a caressing to his ego never hurts, so he offers them his most charming smile.

There isn't much they need to do to them. They won't have to be completely naked, which he knows means he's already won the lottery - for some reason, the Capitol loves excessive skin showing, and lazy stylists try to entertain the audience in the easiest of ways.

Tom ends up with an elaborate golden headpiece, over which his hair falls carefully; the top part of his body is naked, save for a golden set that falls across his chest, forming an _‘X’_. The lower part of his costume consists of something white that resembles a skirt, with an attached golden belt. His arms and legs are covered in golden armor, like the warriors of the previous times would put on before going to war. It's all very impractical, but it fits the image he wants to show the audience - he _is_ a warrior, and a ruthless one, too - so he doesn't worry over it for too long.

As soon as the crew is done with him, they usher him outside, where Bellatrix and Umbridge are already waiting for him. Bellatrix's costume is similar to his in color and props, but her upper body is completely covered, while her legs are exposed. They thank the crew of stylists quickly before Umbridge is taking them out to their chariot.

Not all the tributes are there when they arrive. Tom recognizes District 3’s tributes in some sort of elaborate coordinated costumes, standing closely to the side and observing the other tributes; and also District 4’s tributes, both with clothing articles practically covered in nets. Tom can't help but feel a little bit of pity.

Bellatrix, standing next to him, seems to be constantly on the lookout, as though she's waiting for a specific thing or person to appear.

“You got a crush there, darling?” Tom teases, but his own eyes are searching for the arrival of the other tributes and, most especifically, of Potter.

“If you call wanting to hear how pretty Twelve will cry when I kill him a _crush_ ,” Bellatrix gives him a smile, and it's not a nice one. “Then sure, I have a crush. Although I do wish it had been a Weasley this year - those two from a few years ago put on quite the show.”

“Surely you can entertain yourself with the District 7 kid, instead.”

“Longbottom? He did seem like a loud one.” Bellatrix taps the edges of her long, fake nails to her bottom lip as though in deep thought. She opens her mouth to say something, but she stops herself when she sees the tributes from District 12 come in. “Oh, there they are.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi everyone!! thanks for the great response c:  
> writing tomarry is amazing but i'm also constantly worried abt the characterization, so if you feel like any of the main characters are ooc, plsss let me know
> 
> anyway here is the second chapter! things might start happening! who knows! not me!

Harry learns very quickly that stylists are extremely, uncomfortably invasive. Once he’s been poked and prodded by Hannah Abbott and Ernie MacMillan, the crew members responsible for the care of his skin and hair respectively, and his stylist decides that it's been enough of a canvas cleaning before they could get to what they call _'actual work’_ for the parade, Harry’s just hoping that this is the last time he’ll have to go through this; he’d rather not have to go through the whole experience again, and he’ll take extreme measures if he has to.

He’d been instantly separated from his district’s female tribute, Lavender Brown. He didn’t know much about her - although she’d dated Ron for a few months, back when they were fourteen, they’d never gotten really close. It makes it easier, he thinks, to rationalise that she won’t make it back home.

He hates that he’s already thinking this way, but he knows it’s what he has to do.

Now, Alicia Spinnet, the stylist in charge of his makeover, asks the rest of the crew for a few minutes alone with the tributes. Wearing only their fluffy bathrobes, Harry sits next on the chair next to Lavender’s, attentive eyes on the young woman in front of them.

Alicia is, very clearly, younger than he expected their stylist to be. “This is my first year.” She’d admitted as soon as they met, but she beamed as she did so. “I’m going to make people go crazy for you.”

Now, her smile is still present, but more subdued. “Okay, this is better, just the three of us.” She runs her long fingers through her hair, gaze going from Harry to Lavender, back and forth. “You don’t have to worry - I won’t be sending you two naked out there.”

The comment pulls a choked out, unexpected laugh out of the two of them, and Harry feels his tensed up back relax slightly.

“However,” Alicia smiles dramatically, “I _will_ be alluding to coal. Nothing as dramatic as fire, of course; but the concept is Anthracite. According to my studies, it’s the best and yet rarest type of coal in all of Panem. Of course, coal has a pretty boring color, right?” She barely waits for them to nod, her face brightening up with each word she said. “But we’ll _make it_ interesting. We’ll be playing a lot with make-up, focusing mainly on your eyes - gotta make the best out of your beautiful shades of green and grey.” She gestures respectively to Harry and Lavender, and both look at each other for a second, bemused.

Harry, who hasn’t even dared look in the mirror yet since arriving, has no clue of why she’s filling them in about this - it’s not like they’ll be able to say or change anything.

As though she could read his thoughts, Alicia instantly stops her rambling and takes a deep breath, expression sobering. “I know it’s confusing to be hearing me go on and on about this; you two most probably just want to get this over with, and considering how the following weeks will be going for you, you’ll be needing as much rest as you can.” She stops her wild gesticulating, and clasps her hands together in front of her. “I just want you to know that I care. I know it doesn’t mean anything, but I’ll be doing the best I can to help you. So, if what I can do to help is get sponsors’ attention, then I’ll be doing that.”

In that moment, Harry can’t help the small smile that plays on his lips. He nods, and in that moment, he decides that he trusts Alicia Spinnet - if not her work, her character.

She looks at both of them, and once she’s found whatever she was looking for, her lips curl into a broad smile and she brings her hands to rest at her hips. “Well, let’s get going with this.”

Once her work is done, she lets the two of them look into the mirror. Harry doesn’t know a thing about makeup, but he knows he’s covered in it: on the region around his eyes it’s painted with something that’s a dark shade of grey and it shines, making the color of his eyes even more noticeable, along with his eyelashes, that look like they’re thicker and darker. His lips look redder than usual, but not unnaturally so.

He got a haircut, too: it’s an undercut, but his sides aren’t buzzed - it just leaves fewer hair on the sides than on the top. It’s got a lot of gel, which gives the impression of it being wet and bright. On the top of his head, carefully placed so as to avoid messing his hairstyle, there’s a dark grey crown that looks to be decorated with what seems like blue precious stones. 

They put him in a black sleeveless shirt, with a few see-through parts, and his chest and arms are covered in glitter. The shirt is closed by a baby blue string, and it’s very loose, which ends up exposing a bit more of his chest than he expected, but he can’t find it in him to be mad at Alicia, because he _likes_ how he looks. On his hands there are gloves that end mid wrist and that go from dark grey to blue as it gets closer to his fingers, and the color of his pants matches his shirt.

The feeling, he admits, is very empowering.

A look at Lavender and Harry sees that her clothing matches his, although hers has a lot more blue than his. Her makeup is the same color palette as his, painted similarly as well, although the shade of grey around her eyes seem a little lighter. Her hair is styled into braids on the sides of her head that come together to form one thicker braid on the back of her head, falling over the multitude of carefully molded curls. 

Her dress is dark grey on top of her dress and ends up light blue at the bottom - which Alicia explains gives the idea of the Anthracite coal igniting, gesturing to his own gloves - and her waist is accentuated by a blue belt. Much like Harry, her gloves are dark grey at the beginning and blue at the fingers, though her gloves go all the way to her elbows. When they come to stand together, Alicia looks incredibly satisfied and proud.

Alicia is kind to them the entire time - more so than what he expected of the average Capitol citizen to be. Ten minutes before being led outside, where they’ll wait for their chariot, he tells her so, and she instantly lets him know she's the exception to the rule.

“I don't need to tell you what to expect.” She starts, solemn as she had been during their talk - or her monologue - before. “People are evil; the people from districts closer to the Capitol are eviler; but the people of the Capitol itself are downright _cruel_. Sometimes they don't even know how cruel they are being.”

Harry feels like asking what's her story, and what makes her background different from.the others’ here, but he knows it's not his place to ask; just as she kept her distance from questions he didn't want to even think about.

“I bet.” His thoughts instantly drift to his mother: she'd been from the Capitol as well, but from what Sirius had told him, she had been an exception to the rule, as well. “Thank you, Alicia.” He adds, and Lavender, so quiet since the reaping earlier, echoes him with a soft voice.

“Thank _you_ , two!” She brings back her excited self, and he mirrors her glowing smile, both practicing it for the cameras and offering it to her, even if they both know their smiles aren't quite real. “And good luck!”

As Rita Skeeter whisks them away to where their chariot and the other tributes are waiting, Harry foolishly wishes all people from or just _living_ in the Capitol were as nice as Alicia Spinnet.

-

The whole crowd is absolutely buzzing. With flags with numbers of districts and posters of tributes’ faces made faster than they could breathe, the citizens of the Capitol, extravagantly dressed - even more than the usual - for the occasion, can barely stop shaking from excitement. In less than two minutes the parade will be starting, and they’ll get to see this year’s tributes _in person!_

And this year has so many curious, interesting characters! There’s the cute one with a crazy smile from District 1, Barty; there’s the handsome boy from 2, who everyone desperately hopes will be the one to make it - he’s too handsome to die! - Tom; there’s the handsome pair from 3, Viktor and Fleur; there’s the whimsical girl from 8, Luna; and, of course, the most adorable boy from 12, the one who volunteered, Harry! This year’s Games _have_ to be one of the best ones in history, with such a cast.

Oh, here they come! So many screams for Tom and Barty, and some for Bellatrix, too, as the first two chariots start making their way through the crowd. Tom looks incredibly gorgeous, with a beauty like a god, a perfect sculpture in marble, with his chiseled jaw and dark eyes. He waves to the crowd as though he’s royalty, and he might as well be - he sure looks like it.

Viktor Krum and Fleur Delacour get a strong reaction from the crowd, especially with their seemingly Citizens of Oz inspired costume, and Fleur completely pulls off the look! And the pair look amazing together; if they don’t become a couple, that would be a great loss to romance, surely.

There’s a lot of screams, especially with the charming smiles from Cedric Diggory and the unsure ones from Katie Bell, and Luna Lovegood’s bright, dreamy grin. Susan Bones earns a lot of cooing, and her nervous smile settles on a small one. Such a young one, and the expectations on her are definitely proportionate to her short stature.

Following not so far behind is District 12’s chariot, colored in dark grey that gradually turns into light blue - and it seems to be their whole colour palette, too. While Lavender seems shy and doesn’t appear to have a clue of what to do, her partner’s smile is competing for the loveliest and brightest of the night! When the crowd begins to scream his name, he starts waving and his smile only widens, which, added to how dazzling his green eyes look in contrast to his make-up, only makes him look more gorgeous. He resembles his father, although he’s using his hair shorter than his father had, years ago. Oh, he’s caught a rose, and pressed it close to his chest before throwing a thankful smile in the direction it had come from. What a charmer, he is!

All the chariots come to a stop in formation, and the tributes look among themselves. There are some very noticeable looks traded between a few interesting pairs: the two District 3 tributes, the staring contest between the male tributes of 2 and 12 and also between the girl from 1 and the girl from 4. Oh, we can only wonder what could happen behind the scenes! Hopefully we’ll see all of this fire in the arena.

The parade ends way too soon. Everyone feels a little bit dissatisfied at how fast it passed, but that’s the way it goes ever since the Games started existing, so no one complains more than a few grumbles here and there. In few seconds, the crowd quickly falls into a silence to hear president Grindelwald’s speech.

-

_“Sirius.” Harry comes to a stop once he’s run out of knives, and stares for a bit at the targets, frowning when he notices he failed to hit the center of seven of the ten._

_From where he’s leaning back against the tree, Sirius raises his gaze from the floor and settles it on his godson. “Yes, Prongslet?”_

_“Why do you train me so much?” He won’t deny it: the question is coming out of frustration, out of the failure at being instantly good at something, even though, rationally, he knows that with practice he’ll get better at knives, just as he did with swords; however, he is asking something he’s actually given a lot of thought to. “I mean, I know there’s a chance I’ll get reaped, but it’s such a small one, too. My name is inserted the minimum amount of times necessary. Why isn’t Ron or Fred or Ginny or another Weasley getting training, too?”_

_Sirius sighs, and he crosses the short distance to where Harry’s standing. “We’ve talked about this, haven’t we?”_

_“Yes, but…” Harry bites onto his lower lip, deciding how to proceed about this. He doesn’t rush his thought process: one of the best things about his godfather is that he respects him and his opinions, and knows how Harry works, so he just waits patiently for Harry to reply. “I’m not saying I’m not thankful - I am. It’s just that, sometimes, I feel like I’m wasting your time. It takes me so long just to get good at_ one _skill. And I know the others passed on getting training, but I keep asking myself why they did, and why can’t I.”_

 _“Harry.” Calling him by his name and not his nickname is the first sign that Sirius is going to say something_ very serious _. “No time spent with you is wasted, and much less a time that I spend improving your chances of survival in case you get reaped for the Games. And you know how many times your name is inserted doesn’t really matter: your own father was the same as you, and still got reaped.”_

_Sirius rests his hands on Harry’s shoulders, thumbs moving in a soothing manner. “It doesn’t matter how long you take to get good at a skill, because that’s how things are, and in the end, you do get good at it, and that’s what matters. If you want to stop the training, you can, of course; although I would rather if you didn’t, for my sake.”_

_His godfather’s words appease him, and Harry feels the air leaving his lungs more easily. He nods. “I don’t want to stop. I like it, and it’s a really cool way for us to spend time together.” He gives Sirius a lopsided smile, to which he gets a matching grin in return. “Makes me think of the stories you told me of you and dad training back when you were my age.”_

_Sirius chuckles, eyes crinkling. “You’re better than he was at this age, you know. I don’t know if you’re better than I was, though… I’m just too good.” He pretends to think about it, and Harry playfully punches his shoulder._

The thought of training with knives settles in Harry’s head as soon as he wakes up, and with it the memories of his godfather. Remembering him only makes Harry’s heart ache: it’s been six months since Sirius died, and he’s nowhere near getting over it. He’d never thought losing someone could hurt like this. It feels like he’s lost a limb, sometimes.

Sirius had been as much of a godfather to him as he had been a friend. Now, he’s neither. He’s dead.

Shaking his head, physically attempting to get away from the reminder that his godfather isn’t alive anymore, Harry goes through his morning routine. As he had been doing since before he turned ten years old, Harry stretches and warms up his body. The process has always been extremely relaxing to Harry, and this isn’t an exception.

The shower is already set on cold, he gladly finds, and lets the cold water hit the muscles on his shoulders and back. He brushes his teeth after, and then, once he’s dried himself, he throws his towel around his neck so it’ll catch the drops of water coming from his hair as he reaches for a training suit in his closet.

The training clothing is a shirt in black, white and blue, and a perfectly fitting black pants, along with black boots. His district number is on the left side of his chest, in white. He finishes drying his hair, or dries as much as it is possible, and attempts to tame it for a while before he just gives up. Potter hair is untamable, but he never stops trying, anyway. Alicia had done it, last night - maybe he should ask her for tips.

Harry isn’t feeling necessarily hungry, but he knows he has to eat. Although the official training time starts at 10, Hagrid had told them most of the tributes went there at 8, which goes perfectly with his own biological clock, that got trained to waking up at 6:30 in the morning, every day. He’ll need all the energy he has to make the most out of the morning training.

“Good morning.” He greets his mentor and the District’s escort, and instantly notices Lavender’s absence from the dining table. “Isn’t Lavender up yet?”

“Morning, Harry.” Hagrid takes a sip of his glass of juice, and gestures for the two empty places on the dining table. Harry immediately moves to take the one furthest from Rita, who simply mildly waved at him. “She said she wasn’t feeling very well. I insisted that she still go to the training center, and she said she will, but I’m not sure…”

Noticing how worried Hagrid looks, Harry furrows his brows and reaches for the jar of water. “Does this happen often? Tributes who seem to completely give up?”

He wonders, almost right after he’s finished the question, whether he should have asked it, but Hagrid doesn’t seem to mind; he just looks sad. “It happens every once in a while. The odds aren’t _often_ in our favor.” Harry nods in understanding, finishing his glass of water.

His breakfast consists mostly on food that gives him energy but doesn’t make him feel heavy: bananas, sweet potatoes, eggs and a few apple slices, along with a cup of coffee with milk.

Halfway through breakfast, Harry goes to knock on the door of Lavender’s room. She doesn’t say anything as she opens the door and passes by him, but she is ready for training, already dressed and with her hair up in a ponytail. Once they settle down to eat, she quietly greets everyone good morning, and gets to eating. The rest of breakfast is spent with Hagrid quietly giving them tips of what to do and how to behave in the training center.

Ten minutes before 8am, the two of them are getting into the elevator to go down to the training center. As the District on the highest apartment of the building, they’re lucky enough to get into the lift while it’s still empty. It stops on the every floor from the eleventh to the eighth, and when it stops by the following floors, it’s already too full. Harry would laugh at the unimpressed expressions of the tributes that will have to wait a few extra minutes for the elevator to come back, if he weren’t in his current situation.

And, of course, if District 2’s male tribute - Tom Riddle, wasn’t that his name? - hadn’t looked straight at him with those eyes, dark as the void in which the planets drift, until the elevators completely closed.

A shiver runs down his spine as he remembers those same eyes meeting his on the past night. They were far from each other - nine chariots away, to be more specific - but Harry had felt eyes on him, and when he looked, there Riddle was, his eyes cold on him, assessing, as though noting and cataloguing everything that he could notice on Harry. It was troubling. Alarming.

He should’ve been ready for the intimidation tactics, yes, he knows, but he’d forgotten all about it. It wasn’t something he and Sirius had talked about much in the past few years, especially with getting closer and closer to no longer being eligible for the Games.

That’s one he’ll have to be on the lookout for, he knows. It’d already been a given, considering he’s a Career, but that’s a wake-up call if Harry had ever seen one.

Once they finally reach the training center, Harry quickly looks around for a clock. They’ve got around 7 minutes until the clock hits eight, and at what seems to be the center of the training area, a slender woman is standing, hands behind her back, head down. The kids from District 9 make their way there, and soon, the rest of the tributes follow, starting a circle around the woman.

When the clock strikes 8, all of the tributes are already all standing around the woman, and only then does she start speaking. “Good morning, tributes. My name Vinda Rosier and I’m the head trainer. My job is, mainly, to get you into enough shape to compete in the Games.”

Vinda explains the existence of each training station, and also refers to a map behind her, where it’s possible to see where the stations are and what they offer. She also goes through a long, _long_ elaboration of the many ways in which they can die in the arena, and Harry can see a few tributes trembling once she’s done.

Harry makes sure to get as much of a look as he can of the tributes’ faces. It’s always good to get acquainted with the faces of those who’ll be trying to kill him in a few days time, and he quickly finds that he’s already managed to attach most of the names and districts to faces and _remember_ them.

He avoids looking in Riddle’ direction.

“All types of skills are important. Don’t neglect survival skills, because they just might be what saves your life. Fighting is important, of course, but if you can't sustain yourself, you can’t fight.” Vinda continues, her voice toeing the line between stern and emotionless. “Combat is not allowed between tributes; if any of you want to train, the experts placed at each station will also serve as training partners. Any questions?” When no one replies, she nods. “Good. You’re dismissed.”

-

_“Tom, dear.” His mother presses a kiss to the top of his head, and he leans back to look at her, allowing her to place another kiss to his forehead. “Your father is waiting for you.”_

_He knows his mother doesn’t approve of his training for the Games. He understands her - no mother wants to consider the possibility of their children dying, but that’s why she_ doesn’t _need to worry: Tom won’t die. When he gets to the Games, he’s going to win it and make her proud._

_Still, she doesn’t say anything, because she knows that this is what he wants. Tom thinks she’s the best mom ever. “Thank you, mother.” He doesn’t finish eating, but it’s not that important. His mother has been putting more food on his plate, ever since father had said he needed to put on some weight, but she also said that he’s perfect the way he is, and Tom doesn’t want to get heavier. His trainer, Graves, had told him one of his strengths was how lean and fast he was, and he doesn’t want to lose that._

_Merope leans down to whisper in his ear, “I love you, Tom.” He smiles and says it back, as low as she had said it, careful not to be heard by father. Father disapproves of mother’s displays of affection even if he allows her to hug and kiss Tom; but he draws the line at saying that they love each other._

_Tom doesn’t know why father is like this, but he’s learned to act the way he wants Tom to act when they’re in each other’s presence - which is good, considering they’re only together during meals and when he takes Tom to class and training and back. That’s not a problem for Tom. He’ll be the perfect son to both of them, and when he wins his edition of the Hunger Games, both will finally be proud to be his parents._

 

The thrill of the games is unlike no other, Tom finds. There’s something bubbling under his skin, akin to excitement, and his body seems to acknowledge it even before it realizes he’s awake. He wonders if he’ll wake up every day like this, until he’s in the arena, and hopes he does.

Bellatrix likes to talk, and Tom doesn’t really feel inclined to do so at the moment, so he just hums every once in a while and let’s her speak. Although he doesn’t particularly want to make alliances, he knows he has to, at least for the first day; after that, it’s fair game. Until then, he’ll keep enough of proximity to Bellatrix and the other careers so they won’t doubt his interest in an alliance.

But, eventually, he wanders. Bellatrix probably doesn’t find the climbing station that interesting to follow him there, and considering how empty it is save for him and the instructor, so do the others, for now. He chose to come to the climbing station for two main reasons: the first, so he can practice on something that he doesn’t usually focus on a lot, and it might come in handy, depending on what the arena will look like; and the second being that, once he gets to the top, he can get a good look at all of the tributes.

The first hour and a half in the training center passes by quickly. Tom repeats drills from the academy, climbing up and back down and each time trying to do it quicker; he also manages to observe the tributes, collecting important information. The ones from 3 spend the whole time working on throwing knives, and they never leave each other - they seem to be planning to attempt a double win, which is bold, but not impossible: there’s precedence.

Tom scowls. The one and only time there were two winners of the Games, they were a pair from the same district, and they had strongly appealed to the public’s empathy and love for romance. It happened over thirty years ago, however, and under the previous President’s power: no one knows how president Grindelwald would take the idea of having two winners instead of one.

In all honesty, Tom isn’t interested in sharing his win. Even if he gets the chance to win with Bellatrix, he’d much rather if she fell and hit her head, or got killed by another tribute - he would never harm her: he has no interest in gaining the hatred of his District, of course.

Bellatrix spent a bit of time in the knives station before eventually drifting to the bow and arrows section - something she’s always been good at, to the point of competing directly with Tom on the subject. He knows she won’t drift much from the fighting stations, though. Her plan, as instigated by the academy, is to intimidate the other tributes by showing only her best - and her best is in fighting.

District 12’s tributes settled in what seems to be the snares station. The girl seems apathetic, working with the material as though she’s on autopilot; Potter, however, works fast, and the specialist gestures positively to him, making a smile appear on his face.

Potter continues to intrigue him. During the parade, he seemed like the biggest social butterfly Tom had seen, easily interacting with the crowd; and now, in the training center, he keeps to himself most of the time, limiting himself to the specialist and to his fellow district tribute. Perhaps it’s a selected tactic, to distance himself from others; but if it is, it’s not a good one, considering how useless the girl from his District seems.

Tom thinks back to those moments in the elevator and during the parade, when he caught his eyes. When Potter noticed Tom’s eyes on him, on both times, he didn’t look away, even after his eyes widened at noticing that Tom had no plan to stop looking at him until he no longer physically could. It hadn’t been a conscious intimidation: Tom was only taking the given chances to see the one most intriguing tribute from this edition of the Games. But if his staring did intimidate, he doesn’t see any downsides to it.

The District 4 female tribute spars with one of the specialists, taking breaks to rest and to help the male tribute from her district to practice as well. He doesn’t seem to have any practice, but she seems to have plenty. Someone to watch out for.

District 1’s tributes, for their part…

Tom looks around, searching for the pair, and finds them in a group, approaching the District 12 tributes.

“So _this_ is District 12’s _mighty_ tribute this year!” Barty Crouch Jr's voice is loud and commanding of attention even from the very opposite side of the room.

Moving as silent and quiet as a snake, Tom makes his way to where the other three careers, with the two other District 3 tributes and District 6’s male surrounding Potter. Tom doesn't think it smart to publicly team up before the Games start, and much less targeting someone. The Games are unpredictable enough that, while Tom is self-assured, he wouldn't jeopardize a possible partnership during the Games, or a kind hand being offered to him simply because he was bored.

Potter, to his credit, continues as though he hadn't heard a thing.

“I was so _sure_ we'd get another Weasley!” Bellatrix fake-whines, pulling a few laughs out of the group. “So sad!”

“We almost did, until pretty boy over there volunteered.” Barty sneered, and crouched down to look at Harry's face, so well-hidden by his thick locks. “Guess he'll be the next best thing.”

From where Tom stood, he could see Potter's jaw clenching, but Potter still doesn't reply, keeping his attention on the task at hand.

Relentless, Barty keeps going. “Who was that that you volunteered for, Twelve?” He tilts his head, nudging Potter on his side. “Was that your boyfriend?”

It's then that Harry lifts his head slowly, hands stilting. His eyes zero in on Barty's, and Tom swears he sees fire in Potter's eyes even as he smiles sweetly. “Why? Are you interested?”

Barty, clearly not expecting that response, if any at all, sputters and seems completely at a loss of words. “You-” he starts, then stops himself, standing up and looking impossibly red in the face. “Fucking District 12 scum, how dare you!”

Potter just shrugs, seemingly unaffected, eyes wide and fake innocent. “Well, you did just call me ‘pretty’.”

“You,” Barty points a finger at him, to which Tom rolls his eyes. Leave it to District 1 to be so dramatic about things. “Will be dying by my hand, mark my words.”

Turning back to the net in his hand, Potter shrugs and waves a dismissive hand at Barty, which only makes him fume. “Sure, sure. Nice meeting you, Barty!”

A noiseless chuckle escapes Tom, and he finds himself actually amused as he makes his way back to the climbing area. He'd known already that Barty, along with the other idiots - even Bellatrix, who Tom had some level of respect for - that he was teaming up with, were easily riled up; and to see them fall for such an easy taunt that had been turned against them is just further evidence that Tom is doing the right thing keeping his alliances to them as superficial as it is cleverly possible.

Although he supposes that if he were to consider truly teaming up with someone, it'd be the District 12 tribute whose easygoing expression quickly slipped into an emotionless one as soon as he was left alone with his fellow District 12 tribute.


	3. Chapter 3

Harry feels… Watched.

It's silly to worry about that, really. He knows. All tributes are watching each other, trying to find the strongest, the weakest, the ones to avoid at all costs, the ones you might have a chance of beating, their strengths, their weaknesses. They're all watching each other all the time, so it's to be expected that Harry should feel like he's being watched. Because he is.

But this feeling is different. 

He looks around to find Riddle, but the District 2 tribute is busying himself at the climbing area, as he’d been doing since training started.

After the careers’ provocation, Harry became exponentially more alert, and he didn’t even know he could be more alert than he already was before. Lavender was still shaking minutes after Crouch and the others had left, and she knew that staying near Harry would make her more of a target than she already was. Still, Harry finds it important to tell her so, just in case she doesn’t know.

“I’m staying with you.” She speaks softly, and she looks into his eyes for the first time since- well, ever. “I know I’m going to die, anyway. You’ve always been nice to me, and even now that I am the way I am, you try to help me. So, I’m not going to leave you alone here just for a couple extra days of living... unless you want me to.”

“No, no.” Harry is quick to deny, shaking his head with a sad smile. Lavender is a nice girl - she doesn’t deserve this. No one does. “I want you here. Thank you, Lavender.”

“You know,” She leans closer and speaks even softer than before, so not even the instructor can hear her. “I think you’re going to win.”

Harry doesn’t know what to answer to that, so he just shrugs and looks down at the rope in his hands. He deeply hopes she’s right, but he doesn’t dare saying it, all too aware that his survival means her guaranteed death.

They get back to work. In truth, Harry is really interested in the identifying edible plants station, but he’s already decided to make the most of the snares station before going to the next one. Identifying edible plants can wait until the afternoon.

Aside from a few tips here and there from the instructor, and a quick visit from Vinda to ask them how they’re doing, time passes rather silently between them, and with no further visits. It’s only when it’s a bit past eleven in the morning that someone comes near them. Harry notices it way before they - someone with a very light feet, or with an overall light build - get there, but he forces himself to relax his body so as to not give away anything.

“Hi.” Harry and Lavender lift their heads as though they’re in sync, eyes finding a light-haired girl smiling down at them. “I’m Luna.”

Trading a quick glance with Lavender, Harry nods and offers Luna a smile of his own, not quite genuine. “District 8, right? I’m Harry, and this is Lavender.”

“Nice to meet you.” She looks away from them, in the direction from where she came, and the others follow her gaze. There are a few tributes, one that Harry recognizes from District 9 and other two from District 11. “A few tributes and I were wondering if you’d like to sit with us during lunch.”

“Oh.” Harry instantly turns his head to face Lavender, not really sure what she would like. Ideally, he’d rather not sit with other tributes, but he also knows the importance of not turning away what seems to be heading to a proposition of an alliance, even if he has no interest in one. So he decides to leave it up to Lavender.

She furrows her eyebrows, looking at Luna before looking at Harry, still seeming a bit confused. She offers him a one-armed shrug and then nods. “Sure, why not?”

Turning back to Luna, Harry points at Lavender and gives the District 8 girl a friendly grin. “What she said.”

“Cool. See you at lunch, then.” She waves at them and then makes her way back to where she’d come from. Harry and Lavender trade a look, and then go back to what they were working on.

Lunch time comes quickly. Harry’s tray is filled with a variation of what he’d had for breakfast, except that he adds some dessert - he’s still human, alright. He deserves nice things, too. He might be dead in a few days, and never get the chance to eat a chocolate muffin again.

As it had been settled, Harry and Lavender make their way to a table in the corner of the room, where Luna and her fellow tributes were sitting. “Hello, everyone.” Harry smiles easily, and everyone responds in kind, making space for them to sit. “I’m Harry, and this is Lavender.”

Luna introduces the group to him: there’s the district 5 boy, Cedric; there’s the District 11 pair, Susan and Terry; there’s the boy from district 7, Neville; and there’s the District 8 boy, Justin. They all look very nice, and also very, very soft. As arrogant as it seems to him a second after it happens, the first thing he thinks is, _God, they’ll be dead soon_. It’s not even that he’s wrong, because he most likely isn’t; but he can feel his own brain dehumanizing people in order to make it easier for him to kill them later, and it doesn’t feel good.

Harry swallows his mild self-loathing and works as hard as he can to keep his forced smile on his face.

“How have you been finding the first day of training?” Cedric asks between bites and Harry nearly chokes on his juice. The attempt on small talk surprises him, because- what can he say to that?

He knows Cedric’s being polite, but the situation they're in suddenly hits him and he has to work hard to hold back the crazed laugh that attempts to leave him. Out of the 24 tributes, in a few days, at most a week, only one will still be alive. How is this their life?

“It's alright. Some unpleasant tributes, but I guess that explains their District's reputation.” He shrugs, watching idly as Luna gives Lavender some napkins. “And you?”

“The same, I guess. As much as I knew about the training tributes go through before he Games, I didn't expect it to be like this.”

“And Vinda seems to be helpful, even if she's, you know…” Susan adds, looking around cautiously. “Kind of scary. She's really cold, and it feels like everytime you look at her, she's already looking at you.”

The table agrees with her, and even Harry, to some extent. He supposes that to work in a training center with kids who will be dead in a week's time it requires some level of detachment and foresight.

The conversation quickly, but smoothly, drift to the topic of alliances, as Harry expected. “What do you two think about alliances?” Luna asks the two District 12 tributes, folding the napkin she’d used to clean the corner of her mouth and tucking it under her plate.

Throwing a glance at Lavender, Harry shrugs. “I think they’re good, but it depends on who you’re allying yourself to.” He tilts his head in a fast move towards the Careers’ table and smirks. “For example, I wouldn’t form an alliance with a Career, that’s for sure.”

“Forming an alliance with Careers means that you’re either crazy or desperate.” Terry remarks, leaning forward to be seen as he speaks, a relaxed smile on his lips.

“Or you’re in over your head.”

“But would you be open to forming an alliance with other tributes?” Cedric directs this question to Lavender, who’s been quiet the whole time, but also been paying attention to the whole thing. 

She seems to think for a few seconds before she finally nods in reply. “Yes, I would.” No one seems surprised that she’s speaking, to their credit, which means they must’ve watched Harry and Lavender for long enough to catch one of the rare moments in which she spoke earlier.

Cedric then turns his attentions to Harry, who takes the cue.

“Sure. I don’t think anyone could get too far in the Games alone.”

His answer seems to have pleased the group, and Harry only notices the tension that had been present once it’s faded away. Conversation flows nicely now, easier than it had been, and he watches as Lavender falls into a chat with Luna, Susan and Terry before getting pulled into a chat of his own with Cedric, Neville and Justin.

Eventually, Harry’s mind drift mildly to the confrontation from earlier - or rather an attempt at intimidation, since confrontation demands the two sides to be active participants. He doesn’t know why the Careers seemed to single him out.

There _is_ the matter of their inflated egos and sense of superiority, Harry thinks to himself with bitter mirth, being bothered by Harry’s volunteering, or even by the fact that his father is a previous Victor, making him the only tribute in this edition, and in many years, to be the child of a Victor. But that would be a pretty foolish reason.

Then again, to be a Career you don’t have to be particularly bright.

With a bit of leaning of his head, Harry can see their table without seeming to be ignoring the people in his own. The careers are all sitting together in the center table, and the district 2 guy, who Harry had noticed hadn’t been present for the taunting, is also with them. He keeps to himself, from what Harry gathers from a few glances, interfering every once in a while with a short sentence, or chuckling politely once or twice.

It’s odd that a Career wouldn’t be spending every training time with other careers. _Careers mostly stick to each other_ , Hagrid had said, _and although they might form alliances with other districts, they’re only allies to themselves_. He doesn’t doubt that Riddle is only an ally to himself. Still, he seems like he’s different from the other Careers. Maybe it’s the fact that he doesn’t seem interested in bullying anyone.

-

“You were quite distant from us this morning, Riddle.” Bulstrode asks, her tone malicious, as Tom sits down next to Bellatrix, placing his tray in front of him. “Is everything alright?”

“Everything’s perfect.” Tom nods in acknowledgement of all sitting with him, and reaches for the water bottle. “Just didn’t see the appeal in taunting some poor kid. I have better things to do.”

“Oh, but it wasn’t just some poor kid!” Bellatrix nudges him on the side, and he flashes her the ugliest look he has, which, unfortunately, goes either unnoticed or ignored. “It was Potter! Apparently his father was one of the only two Victors District 12 ever had, before he got himself and his wife killed.” She laughs, tone strident, and the rest of the group follows, with the exception of Tom, who hides his serious expression behind his water.

The kid from District 6, whose name Tom hasn’t bothered to learn, tilts his head in confusion. “So, he’s the only tribute here with a Victor parent?” His eyes widen. “Wow.”

Bulstrode huffs, rolling her eyes, but visibly bothered. “That doesn’t make him any special.”

“Especially since he’ll end up dead like his father soon, anyway.” Bellatrix comments, giggling. “I’ll make sure it happens.”

“I’d rather you leave that honor to me, Lestrange.” Crouch sneers. “I’m not exactly known for being patient, but I don’t mind waiting for the arena just for the chance of killing him.”

The idea of killing in itself is exciting for Tom, he admits; but he doesn’t really care for personal vendettas, or whatever it is Barty and Bellatrix are doing. Sure, he’ll kill Potter if he runs into him in the arena, but he doesn’t look forward to it any more than he does to others. He’s not special.

_But what is your deal, Twelve?_ Tom can’t help but think. There’s so much that’s wrong about Potter as someone from the poorest District. _You’re no Career - Twelve has no careers - and barely no one volunteers unless they’re Careers, nowadays. Hell, not even siblings volunteer for each other. You should be going to the weapons station, try to make the most out of the three days of training to learn how to defend yourself, even with moot probabilities of success; and yet you waste your time on a station like_ snares _. What gives?_

What gives?

Potter is uncharted territory, and it’s probably what mainly bothers the other Careers the most about him - what bothers _Tom_ the most. He’s different. Odd. It’s curious. 

But he’s still a tribute.

No matter how different Potter might be - how _interesting_ \- it doesn’t change the fact that he’s a tribute as well as Tom and that for Tom to survive, Potter has to die.

-

Coming back to the training area, Harry can’t help the tenseness of his muscles. He’s worried, of course he is: regardless of the rules, he wouldn’t put it past the Careers to attempt to cause him harm in _some_ way. So he takes a deep breath, pays attention to his surroundings and knows that the rest of the day will be stressful, if only for the need to spend at least a bit of his concentration protecting himself, and Lavender by proxy.

He throws a quick, longing look at the knives station. _Tomorrow_ , he thinks. _Tomorrow I’ll practice with them._ For now, however, he heads to the plants station. He learned the very basics of it, a long time ago; but there’s a lot that he doesn’t remember, and there’s no time but right now.

In contrast, Lavender seems a lot more at ease after lunch. She doesn’t talk as often as she used to, back in the District - and she did talk a _lot_ \- but she’s talking a lot more frequently than during the morning. She asks Harry for help with memorizing some of the berries that are poisonous; and when Harry says he’s going to quiz himself on them, she leaves for the snare station, where Luna is and where Harry is planning on going once he’s done with the quiz.

When the training day is done, they make their way back to their apartment. Despite her obvious improvement - even going so far as to mentioning learning how to throw knives on the next day - Lavender still silently goes straight to her room, only offering Harry a smile before she enters. 

Not seeing Hagrid, or even Rita, Harry decides a shower is in order, and does the same as Lavender. In truth, even if Hagrid and Rita were there, Harry would prefer taking a shower than talking to his mentor. It has nothing to do with Hagrid, and everything to do with the way Rita looks at him and Lavender, and how she pays attention to every single word that leaves their mouth, and Harry’s sure she doesn’t have their best interests at heart. He’ll stay as far away from her as he can.

After a good, relaxing warm shower, Harry falls into his thoughts of the day. He’d learned; and recalled many things; made acquaintances that, while he has no interests in having alliances with them, might come in handy in the future; and confirmed that the Careers are people he’ll avoid for as long as he can. Just because he’s trained before doesn’t mean that he’s ever killed, and that he’d easily succeed in killing someone who probably, who knows, had already killed by the age of fifteen. 

Easily, his mind drifts to Lavender. He worries about her. Regardless of how low one thinks their chances are, they should still fight. It’s something human beings owe to themselves, the duty to fight for their own life. The duty to fight for their chance to make it to another day.

But it’s not his problem. He’ll help her as much as he can, as much as she asks him. He already knows he won’t kill her in the arena, unless she tries to kill him first; but once they’re in the arena, he won’t be around to help her anymore. Even with alliances, once you’re in the arena, you’re on your own.

-

On the second day of training, Harry wakes up with a lot more disposition than on the previous day, and so does Lavender, it seems. On the night before, they’d gathered around the dinner table to both eat and talk about their day. As some sort of blessing, Rita didn’t eat with them; apparently she had dinner plans to attend to, and although he didn’t say it, Hagrid seemed pleased. Harry wonders how he deals with her, and then remembers that it’s only a little over a week per year; he should be fine.

“It’s good that you two followed my advices.” Hagrid pointed out once they were done with their retelling of the day. “I find it smarter to avoid showing your abilities, and focusing on learning. The careers are fond of intimidating tactics, so don’t be worried, it isn’t the first time that they try to intimidate a tribute from a poorer district and it won’t be the last.”

Harry nodded, and then took a sip of his cup of coffee. Lavender contributed to the conversation, telling about how she learned how to make snares, and that she will continue to work hard, which made the other two smile.

Once Hagrid was done with praising Lavender, Harry took the chance presented by the silence that had settled and quickly told Hagrid of his plans to train with knives and the bow on the following day. Despite grumbling a bit, Hagrid had given him the green light, telling him to continue the way he is, ignoring the Careers and not instigating any possible fighting.

Right when Hagrid was retiring to his own bedroom, Harry called out to him. “Doesn’t it bother you that Rita is out and not here?”

Hagrid seems taken aback by the question, and then he chuckles mildly. “Oh, that’s normal, Harry. Us, mentors and escorts, often go out to dinner in order to attempt to get sponsors for our tributes. It’s a good thing.”

Harry doubts that Rita would be doing anything for _their_ benefit, but he had kept quiet about it and wished Hagrid a good night. A few minutes, Lavender went back to her own room and Harry, left alone in the living room, decided to go to the roof of the building. There, he spent an hour or so, taking in the fresh air that he hadn’t breathed in a while, before he finally felt sleepy, and once he did, he went back to his apartment, getting into bed and falling into a deep, restful slumber.

He has a theory that it was the air from the open roof that made him rest so well throughout the night - or, most especifically, from the garden there - but there’s no way to prove that theory unless he stops going to the roof, and he’s not doing that; it’s an empty, peaceful place, and he’ll take as much advantage of it as he can. Privacy, silence and peace are rare things to find in the Capitol, in this building, as a tribute.

Harry makes sure to eat as well as possible, and after a fulfilling breakfast, he and Lavender go on their merry way down to elevator. No longer being the first day, and with a bit more flexibility in the hours, the elevator is empty, and only stops once, in the sixth floor, before it continues to go all the way down.

When Harry sets foot in the training center, the knives station seems to call out to him, empty and inviting. He ponders for a few seconds, hands itching in ways that he hadn't felt on the day before, and he considers the chances of the careers attempting to intimidate him once again there.

He takes one look around, finding where each and every tribute is; then, he takes one look at the station's specialist's serious face and his tall build and grins to himself. He's good.

The knives are heavier than he's used to, even if the material appears to be similar. Harry dismisses the specialist for now, and just enjoys the knife he’s taken from the rack. He switches it from hand to hand for a while, just getting a feel for it, eyes closed and his breathing even. Then, taking the worst stance he's ever taken in his whole life, he aims just outside of the target.

Harry misses the target, but he hit where he wanted to hit. He had to know how different from his training knives these are, and how to adapt to them; and no one should see that he isn't half-bad at knife throwing. Truth be told, he isn’t anywhere _near_ bad.

The specialist quickly comes to his side to aid him, and as though Harry has never touched a knife before, he allows the specialist to teach him how to best throw a knife, how to aim somewhere and hit your target, how to avoid getting hurt by your own blade.

And then, Harry spends the next hour getting used to the Capitol’s knife, hitting easy targets but not where’s meant to hit. He does his best not to be consistent, instead even allowing himself to hit the center of the target once among the many mistakes. The specialist is pleased with the fact that Harry wasn’t a total failure, and doesn’t press him too much when Harry says he’ll leave the knife station for the bow and arrows.

Another weapon to get used to. Even if it’s one that he’s not as fond of and as good with as the knife.

-

He didn't miss. Tom could be wrong, although the chances of that are very, very low, but he’s sure that Potter didn’t miss. Oh yes, he might have striked out, but that was completely on purpose.

As soon as Tom saw Potter making his way to the knives station, he knew he had to keep an eye on him. He’d finally done what Tom was expecting him to do: check out the fighting stations, even if only to have a minimum knowledge of how to defend himself. Of course Tom has to see how this goes.

From the bow and arrows station, neighbor to the knives, Tom watches with a keen but inconspicuous stare as Potter takes an atrocious posture and throws the knife in his hands at the target. Everything about him seems to indicate he’s never touched a knife before, not a throwing one and never with the intent to harm; but his eyes are focused, are trained, the way eyes are when one’s spent countless hours practicing their aim. He tried to seem sloppy, and he probably succeeded, mostly. 

When Tom looks around himself, he sees at least six tributes watching Harry, including Barty and Bulstrode, who don’t care to hide their laughters; though a single cold look from the specialist makes them stop.

Potter fooled everyone but Tom, apparently.

Tom quickly goes back to practicing his shot with the bow. He’s always preferred it to any other weapon, mostly due to its long distance potential. Despite enjoying close contact - hence sword fighting being his second favorite form of attack - he likes the protection that a bow and arrow gives with the distance. Key word being distance, of course - he knows using the bow is only truly preferable as long as you have the advantage of awareness of the enemy and of distance. Most of the time, he’ll prioritize the sword.

But he won’t deny the bow is better.

A few glances at Potter and he’s quick to confirm that he really is pretending not to know what he’s doing. The other tributes have already stopped paying attention, and the specialist has clearly given him a wide berth to just throw the knives, since practicing is key. Potter pretends as best as he can - and he’s really good at that, too - but once you notice it, you can’t unsee it.

Which leads to a question: why is Potter pretending not to know how to throw a knife? Easy answer: because he’s good at it. The real important question is: how does he know how to throw knives?

District 12 tributes are, statistically speaking, one of the two least unprepared Districts and most likely to die before the first night of the Games. The clear evidence is that there’s only ever been two Victors from there, and it’s been over 70 editions of the Games.

The only logical explanation is that Potter had training. He’d already figured that Potter is from the wealthier part of the District, but it’s still a poor District. It’s very unlikely that there’s a qualified trainer there, or that he’d pay for someone to go there to train him. It doesn’t make any sense.

A fleeting urge to see Potter throw the knives without any restrictions hits Tom; to see Potter at his full potential, showing all he can do.

Tom knows why Potter is hiding his skills. It’s a good tactic, really - to hide your skills, to be underestimated. Tom can see the appeal, even if it doesn’t quite suit his style, or District 2’s, for that matter. As a proper District 2 Career, he mustn’t hide what he can do, and he must score highly in the private training session with the gamemakers. That’s what a District 2 tribute does. That’s what he’ll do.

Either way, Tom doesn’t hang around the bow station for long after that, getting bored of seeing Potter miss the target on purpose and frustrated over not having the slightest clue of why a Twelfth District tribute is _having to_ _pretend_ not to know how to throw a knife.

“How terrible is Potter, huh.” Bulstrode comments when Tom reaches the sword fighting station, her own sword in her lazy grip. “Tell me, Riddle: is he better from up close, or is he just completely useless?”

Throwing a quick glance at Potter’s way, for a moment, Tom considers telling Bulstrode about Potter’s ability with the knife; that he’s just pretending to be inexperienced. But why should he give her extra knowledge? His loyalty to this alliance is nearly non-existent. Why should he help her? “Utterly green. I’d bet that he’d never thrown a knife before today, and there’s no natural talent there, either.”

Bulstrode smirks as though she’d already known it, and it satisfies her greatly for her opinion to be confirmed. “Poor kid. I do feel some pity for him; if he dies by Barty’s or Bellatrix’s hands, it won’t be pretty.” And then she leaves, back to practicing with a specialist.

As he makes his way to the rack of swords, looking through each of them before finally choosing one that feels best in his hands, Tom acknowledges that his views on Potter might be changing. The best proof of that is that he’s considering that Potter might not be as easy to kill as previously thought; that Potter might surprise them a lot, and that he’s not one to be underestimated.

And he wonders if it won’t be him killing Bellatrix or Crouch instead. A smile full of malice plays on Tom’s lips, and he starts getting acquainted to the sword in his hand. He’s always liked the different, the surprising, the interesting. Not many things surprise Tom; not since his mother was murdered, when he was eleven years old. Now, at eighteen, he thought he knew people, and he wasn’t wrong: he does know most people. But Potter is no ordinary being.

The Games might turn out to be even better than he expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tell me what you think! i have no clue what i'm doing lol


	4. Chapter 4

Harry had known before coming to the Games that working with weapons tires a person like hell, but the way his body hurts at the end of the day is something no amount of prior knowledge could prepare him for. With the added tension of being in that closed environment in the middle of future murderers and victims - himself included, in god knows which category - he’s only glad he can still stand straight as he makes his way up to the twelfth floor.

After practicing with the knives, Harry had easily moved to the bow and arrows station, taking advantage of the fact that Riddle had just left it. Knives were something that he knew that he doesn’t need much practicing, now; the bow, however, has never had the best of relationships with him. Therefore, he spent most of the rest of the training day practicing with it, although he tried to maintain his tactics of not hitting the established target, instead targeting somewhere else.

If Riddle had continued in that station, Harry ponders, as he takes a much needed warm shower, letting the hot water hit his back muscles in abundance, he thinks that he wouldn’t end up going there. Considering how much he looked at Harry while Harry was pretending to suck at throwing knives, Harry was completely worried about Riddle figuring out his farce, and standing close to him would only make Harry more nervous, which would interfere with his archery practice.

Which doesn’t mean that Riddle stopped looking at him once they changed stations, oh no: Harry felt, and even seen, a couple times, Riddle’s eyes on him, watching what he did. He pushed through it in order not to waste his time in that station, but it unnerved him somewhat.

In truth, Harry doesn’t know why Riddle looks at him so much. He doesn’t think he stood out much, outside from the reasons he’s here in the Capitol. Most of the time, he hangs with Lavender or by himself, and he has lunch with the tributes from Districts 11, 8 and 6. He even did terrible with the knives and the bow. The one time that Harry didn’t hid anything was when he was quizzing himself on the edible berries and overall plants, and he doesn’t think Riddle was near enough to see that.

Besides, Riddle had started looking at Harry during the parade. What’s up with that?

Harry is no fool to think that Riddle is his only worry. The rest of the Careers seem to have cruel, cruel fantasies about him, and he has no interest in knowing any of them. For some reason, he’s being targeted, and the Games hasn’t even properly started yet.

But the games start when you introduce yourself, back in your own district, to the rest of Panem. This is all part of the game, and he knows it. It was drilled into his mind before he turned twelve years old.

When Harry comes out of the bath, he feels simultaneously refreshed and still exhausted. He meets Lavender as he leaves his room, and she flashes him a smile. She’s been a lot more energized lately, especially in comparison to how she’d been before. Harry’s pretty sure it has something to do with the girls from District 8 and 11, in which she found friends, people to talk to. Harry doesn’t take it to heart: despite his less than impressive frame - he’s always been on the lean side, although he has muscles to show from training - he knows he’s prepared, and even if she doesn’t know to which extent, she _is_ aware that he’s not helpless. Not like her. In Luna and Susan, she found people more alike her than he is, gaining strength from them, and for that, he’s grateful.

At dinner, unlike on the previous night, Rita is there, sitting across from Hagrid at the table as usual. She smiles at them, although there’s no one in the world that will ever convince Harry that her smiles are pleasant. “Good evening, dearies! How was training today?”

Taking advantage of Lavender’s revival of her will to live, Harry gestures for her to speak, instead going to take his place next to Hagrid. “It was good! I learned how to climb, and also worked on learning knot tying. And…” She throws a questioning look at Harry, who, puzzled, just raises his eyebrows at her, urging her on. “I’ve been considering making an alliance.”

Hagrid and Rita exchange a glance, and it seems that Rita is the one chosen to give Lavender the necessary talk about alliances. “Listen, dearie: making alliances is very serious business. You need to be sure that those you’re making an alliance with won’t turn on you in the first moment you’re vulnerable, and you also need to be ready to protect yourself and/or flee at all times.” Awkwardly, as though she’s not used to doing so, Rita reaches for Lavender’s shoulder, resting her hand there. “Do you think you can do this with these people you want to make an alliance with?”

Lavender first takes in a deep breath, and she seems to actually give the question some thought. Then, after a few moments, she nods vehemently. “Yes, I think so.”

“Fair enough.” Lowering his head so his face won’t be seen, Harry reaches for sugar to add to his tea as he hears Hagrid’s reply. “I’ll trust your judgement. Who are they?”

Harry knows Hagrid’s not being a hundred percent honest with Lavender, but he also knows he doesn’t have much hope for her, so he won’t argue with what Lavender seems set to do. It’s probably not wise to become an enemy to your tribute. Instead, he’ll still do his very best for her, even if his expectations are low. “The tributes from 8, from 11 and Cedric Diggory, from 5.”

Nodding, Hagrid seems to be associating the names to the faces. “Cedric seems like a good one; he’s strong.” Then he turns to Harry, who, when he notices the attention, puts the cookie he was eating back on his plate. “What about you, Harry? Any alliances?”

Without even throwing a look in Lavender’s direction, Harry shrugs. “I’m not sure yet. Lavender’s alliance is an option, but I’m still thinking.” He doesn’t lay his plan out in the open for everyone to see. As much as he respects the people there with him, he doesn’t fully _trust_ them - or, at least, Lavender and Rita. Lavender just because she might, accidentally or not, tell her alliance too much, putting him in a dangerous position; however, Rita is someone he doesn’t know and finds himself completely unable to trust. For all he knows, she can be giving information to possible sponsors and damaging his chances of success.

Completely unaware of Harry’s worries, Hagrid throws him a small grin. “That’s good, Harry. No need to rush and try to make alliances. You still have tomorrow and the day of the interview: plenty of time to connect with the other tributes yet.” But something in Hagrid’s eyes tell him that _maybe_ he knows that Harry isn’t planning on making _any_ alliances - and he’s pleased.

“Speaking of tomorrow!” Rita asks, sipping from her glass of wine and splitting her attention between Harry and Lavender. “How are you two feeling about the training score? Any plans for the presentation?”

“I’m thinking of doing some climbing, and showing my agility while doing so.” Lavender nods, as if speaking to herself. “I think I picked it up quite quickly today. I also could show some of what I learned of making snares.”

“Good, good. That should guarantee you a five or a six!” Rita replies with far too much excitement than it seemed necessary, but Lavender welcomes it, smiling back at the woman. “What about you, Harry? What are you planning on doing?”

That’s a difficult question. Ideally, Harry would show his knife skills and also some of his sword fighting skills, leaving aside the bow, which is, along with the spear, his weakest weapon. But he knows it can’t be like that: in true ideal fashion, he wouldn’t be in the Games; ideally speaking, there wouldn’t even _be_ the Games. “I’m planning on showing my skills with the knife. I practiced it a lot today, and if I do like I did during practice, I think I can get a really good score.”

The perfect scenario consists on getting a high enough score to be considered worth it by the sponsors, specially as he progresses in the Arena; but also low enough that he won’t be even more targeted by the other tributes. A seven, or perhaps an eight would be excellent.

“Ah, that’s a good plan!” Hagrid seems at a loss of what to say after that, and Harry saves him from having to find something by going back to eating his food, which instantly made everyone else, who had stopped, do the same.

Much like the past night, once dinner is over, everyone makes their way to their rooms, except for Harry. The roof is in his head and he feels almost a pull to it, and so he quickly makes his way to the place where he found a safe haven of sorts.

The place is empty, again. His feet move out of their own accord to the spot he’d claimed near the edge, where the wind blows past him and fills him with a lightness that he very rarely feels. Where he sits is probably as close as he can safely get to the force field, there just to enforce the fact that the tributes have no choice but to die, but they don’t get to choose how or when or where.

He closes his eyes as he allows himself to think more. The quietness of the place aids in that, and he easily decides it’s his favorite place in the Capitol. He makes small mental notes: spend at least an hour in the climbing station tomorrow, since there’s no such thing as too much practice, even if he’s sure he can still do it easily if prompted; check out the sword fighting station, but not for long, in order to avoid getting himself too tired before the private training session with the Gamemakers; prepare himself for-

“Oh.” A melodic voice breaks through his thoughts, and Harry instantly turns his head to look in the direction from where the voice had come. There, standing as though he had just walked out of the elevator, stood Tom Riddle. The District 2 tribute seemed genuinely surprised. “I didn't know there was already someone here.” And he makes to turn to leave.

Before he knows it, without even knowing why or thinking it through, Harry opens his mouth. “Hey, no. You don't have to leave. There’s… Plenty of space to go around. Literally.” Riddle tilts his head to the side, watching him. “This roof is circle-shaped.”

A chuckle leaves Riddle, and Harry can only look, perplexed, as the feared Tom Riddle laughed at a ridiculous joke coming from _Harry_. “So I’ve noticed.” But he approaches Harry anyway, doing so slowly, almost… Cautiously. Like he’s approaching a spooked animal, even if Harry was the one who told him to stay.

And like, what was that about? Harry feels like punching himself. He should’ve let Tom Riddle leave and go back to where he came from, think ‘good riddance’ and continue to peacefully enjoy the roof as he’d been doing before. Instead, he’d allowed Riddle to stay - not that he had any right to do that, the place was as much his as it was Riddle’s - and even joked with him. What even.

Riddle continues watching him carefully, slow steps bringing him close to the edge, but still at a safe distance from Harry. “You’re a curious one, Harry Potter.”

The matter-of-factly tone in Riddle’s voice makes Harry furrow his brow, a bit confused. “I am?”

“You are.” Riddle affirms, coming to sit on the edge as well, his back to a cornerstone, much like the one Harry’s resting his back against. “You were pretending not to know how to throw knives.”

It’s not a question, and Harry can’t help but knowingly smile, hiding it when he lowers his head, even as he acknowledges the danger of Riddle knowing that. “So you _did_ notice.” At Tom’s raised eyebrow, he simply says, “You’re not half as subtle as you think you are. If stares could kill, I wouldn’t have to step foot into the Arena in three days to be dead.”

“Funny.” Tom says, and the timid curl of the right corner of his lips implies that he does find it funny. “I could say the same about you.”

“We’ve been staring at each other a lot, huh? What’s with that, Riddle?”

“I don’t know about you,” Riddle mirrors Harry, stretching his legs in front of him and leaning back against the cornerstone. “But I like to get as much knowledge as possible on what I consider my strongest rivals.”

“Oh, high praise from District 2’s Career!” Harry exaggerates an impressed expression, sarcasm slipping easily out of his mouth before he even thinks about what he’s saying. “Don’t think buttering me up will make me go easy on you in the Arena. I’ll still fuck you up.“

“Good to know.” Riddle nods at him, sounding… Entertained? That was a threat if Harry has ever made one, and it's serious one, and it's coming from a District 12 tribute, and Riddle… is amused? Some of Harry's bafflement must show on his face, because he smirks. “Would be a shame if my opponents didn't perform their best when I beat them. Just allow me to make your words my own and echo them back to you.”

It's odd not to be treated as an inferior by a Career. Harry would be suspicious about it, but something tells him that Tom Riddle has better things to do than to try to manipulate a poor District 12 tribute. He'd be more likely to have fun doing that with another tribute, closer in numbers to his own.

“So, did you tell your fellow careers yet?”

Riddle, who had been looking away at the city's landscape, turns his head to face Harry once again. “Come again?”

“About my faking a lack of talent to throw knives. Have you told others yet?” Harry repeats, bringing one knee closer so as to rest his cheek on it.

“No.” Riddle shakes his head, seeming nonplussed. “Why would I? What I saw, they can see too. I'm not here to do anyone any favors.”

It's hard to hold back the startled laugh that wants to leave Harry's mouth, but after a hard fight, he comes out victorious. “You know what, Riddle?” At Riddle's inquiring staring, Harry continues, not managing to keep away a small smile from his face. “You’re not at all what I thought you were.”

Once again, Tom Riddle seems to be surprised. He doesn't seem like he's a man who's easily surprised. But he still offers Harry a weird but seemingly genuine small smile. “Well, I can say the same about you, Potter.”

-

There is something about Harry Potter, something remarkable. That’s what Tom concludes at the end of the night, when he’s back in his room, down at the second floor, after spending a couple of hours speaking to Potter.

It’s not usual for Tom to have such long, two-sided conversations, with anyone. He wouldn’t say there wasn’t information that he wasn’t interested in, paying a high level of attention to the words that left Potter’s mouth, but had he only been interested in that, he wouldn’t have spoken, willingly, nearly as much as Potter did. Most of his conversations are either forced or are simply pushed by Tom’s need for knowledge; this was different.

Tom’s never connected with anyone, not really. His father never really bothered to care about him enough to know him; his mother, as much as she loved him, wasn’t ever in the perfect state of mind to fully be the person Tom needed him to be; his training colleagues always either looked up to him or rightfully saw him as competition, therefore attempting to interfere with his training. Until this day, Tom hadn’t ever noticed he’d been missing that; now, he wonders how he lived so long without it.

What is it about Potter that managed to engage a genuine conversation with Tom? What was about him that it made Tom forget, even if just for a few seconds before he caught himself, that he’s a trained murderer with no tally yet? That made Tom wish for his life not to be so empty, so one-note? Potter has made an impression on him, a good one, and Tom doesn't really know what to do with it.

Tom isn’t an idiot. He knows District 2’s tributes are as much victims of the Capitol as the other districts; that the only difference from the other tributes is that Districts 1 and 2 managed to convince themselves, in a rampant delusion, that they do this willingly, that it’s their choice to send two kids year after year to kill or be killed in live television for the entertainment of the Capitol, unlike the rest of Panem. He knows that. He _knows_ that - he just hadn’t cared until now.

Potter didn't tell him about where he learned how to throw knives, or why he volunteered, or what he’s planning to do; instead, he told Tom about his District, about his friends, about his family. Tom responds in kind, and they compare their experiences in different districts. Tom sees who is District 12’s tribute behind said title, and allows Potter to get a glimpse of the Tom that thinks beyond what he was trained for all his life. 

At the end of their talk, Tom, solely out of curiosity, had asked Potter, “Would you be interested in an alliance?”

Potter had squinted, looking at him through his noticeably thick lashes. “I’ve been told it’s not very wise to ally yourself to Career tributes.”

It’s not a _‘yes’_ , but it also isn’t a _‘no’_ , either. Tom grins. “It isn’t.” 

He was aware that he wouldn’t be getting anywhere with Potter, so he didn’t push the subject; and he also doesn’t have any interest in actually partnering up with Potter, or with anyone else, for that matter. It was a question made simply to see whether Potter had alliances, and Tom finds it safe to assume that he doesn’t. He doesn’t know whether that’s clever, in Potter’s position, but that’s as far as he’ll go in thinking about it.

-

Tom wakes up in a particularly good mood. He feels like he’s getting more and more fired up as he gets closer to the Games, and the thought of the private training session tonight - of getting his score - puts him in such a good mood that even the people he shares the apartment with notice during breakfast.

“What got you so _jolly_ , little Riddle?” Rabastan is the one who asks, after sharing poorly hidden amused looks with the others sitting at the table. Bellatrix giggles to herself and stops as soon as Tom fixes her with his coldest stare.

‘Little Riddle’ is something of a nickname that he’s fairly acquainted with, and yet, will never be over his hatred for it. It references to his father, and the fact that the two of them are even compared is loathsome to him. Tom might even go down the political road someday, but he wants to distance and distinguish himself from Tom Senior, so if, in the future, he continues to be compared to him, Tom will be the superior, most accomplished one.

“Nothing in particular.”

Edgecombe rolls his eyes, and Tom fights back the urge to look for an argument: as much as he dislikes her, she’s still a victor, and a powerful one, at that. Not someone to make an enemy out of, especially when he’ll be entering the arena in forty-eight hours, and she has enough influence to steal sponsors or just steer them away from him.

At the shared training area, Tom decides to practice with the spear, which, admittedly, he’d been neglecting for the past two days. It’s not that he’s not good at it: rather, it’s a weapon with which he excels, but he finds less practical than his preferred ones. Still, for the training session, he decides to polish his skill with it, and spends his time there until they’re all called for the private training session.

For his training session with the Gamemakers, Tom decides on showing his skills with the bow, with a sword and with the spear. The thought of using knives then crosses his mind, but it’s fleeting: no point in showing a skill that he hasn’t managed to improve to its maximum yet. When his name is called, he walks into the room and has to refrain from frowning at the sight.

The Gamemakers are all there - Ludo Bagman sitting in the very center, Antonin Dolohov a little bit more to his left, and many others who Tom doesn’t really recognize, chatting among themselves loudly. All of their hands are busy, be it with a full glass of alcohol or with something to eat, and, while trying to hide his disgust at the lack of professionalism, Tom can only be glad that he’s one of the first tributes to present to the Gamemakers. No doubt they’ll be completely drunk by the time District 12’s tributes walk in. Tom even pities Potter a bit.

“Good evening.” His voice is commanding and even, as he’s perfected in the past few years, and the Gamemakers suddenly quieten, turning their heads to look at him before answering him. “I’m Tom Riddle, from District 2.”

“Very well, Tom.” Ludo Bagman says, and clears his throat once his voice breaks when he says Tom’s name. “Go on with your presentation.”

With the Gamemakers’ go-ahead, Tom activates the simulation at the hardest level. Then, Tom picks up the bow and the set of twenty arrows and waits until the voice counting down reaches zero.

He doesn’t have a clue what score he’ll get, but from the astonished faces of his audience, he thinks it’ll be a great one.

Whatever worry he could possibly have over not getting a high enough score, as faint as it could ever have been, loses power and fades away completely.

-

The third day of training is the one that gets Harry in jitters as soon as he wakes up. It’s not uncommon for him: he’s been known to managing to avoid, or delay, a physical reaction to stressful situations. To be honest, he’s surprised he lasted this long without getting truly anxious. It’s always like this, this feeling of suddenly soaking up all the worrisome situation, as though Harry had been going by oblivious for the past three days.

He goes through his own process of coming down, which consists in meditating for a while longer than he had been doing in the previous days. He’ll be arriving at the training center a little later than usual, but he’d already been expecting that ever since he’d come down from the roof at midnight to sleep.

Talking with Riddle had been enlightening, in some ways. Getting to know your enemy beyond the character presented and into the person behind the name is dangerous, and he knows it, but Riddle has the sort of presence that draws people to. Getting to know Riddle made Harry realize that if there is a sole tribute for him to truly worry about, it’s him.

He’s not fooling himself: he knows he has to worry, and a lot, about District 2’s female tribute and District 1’s male tribute, who seem to have something personal against him for whatever reason. But the true competition is Riddle, and this realization has dawned on him like a windstorm.

Harry had been wary throughout their conversation, but it’s one of the most pleasant he’s had since arriving at the Capitol. And maybe he was imagining it, but he’d felt like Riddle has some sort of respect for him. Harry doesn’t have a clue of why Tom Riddle could ever have respect for him, and that’s enough to make Harry’s assumption be crushed, but Harry thinks that if it’s true, the feeling is mutual.

Meditation helps clear his mind, and once he feels truly relaxed, he proceeds to showering, getting dressed and all that follows.

There isn’t much to be said during breakfast, and, aside from the usual wistful looks from Hagrid, nothing noteworthy happens. Lavender had decided to go to the training center alone, after getting tired of waiting for Harry, rightfully so. Harry, aware of his lateness, made sure to eat well but on his own time.

A thought previously settled in the back of his mind comes forth, reminding him to keep an eye out for Tom’s training, mainly, and the other careers on a smaller scale. He had been paying attention to all the tributes, but today was the last day of training, and those four were the ones that worried him the most.

As soon as Harry steps into the training center, he spots Riddle, sipping what seemed to be water from the cup in his hand. Their eyes meet for a moment, and Harry nods at him, who nods back in acknowledgement, expression betraying nothing. Breaking eye contact, Harry instantly makes his way to the fire-starting station, sparing a longing look at the hand-to-hand combat station.

-

When Harry reaches the roof that night, it’s with a sense of relief and satisfaction. When the 7 appeared on the screen, Hagrid had clapped his shoulder and congratulated him, and both Rita and Lavender repeated Hagrid’s latter action. If Harry could, he’d give himself a pat on the back, too: the struggle of not knowing whether he’s managing to toe the line of good but not too much well had been hell in his head, and once he’d left the room, he’d only been grateful to be getting away from the stress, from the smell of alcohol and the disrespect from the Gamemakers.

But it all worked out well! The cold, enveloping wind from the roof hits his face and he smiles as he breathes it in.

Sitting on the same spot as he’d sat on the previous night, Tom Riddle was already there, although he noticed Harry’s presence quicker than Harry had when it had been the other way around. “Ah, what a disappointment. I thought I’d have the roof for myself tonight.” At first, Harry thinks Riddle’s serious, but after a few seconds of watching his face - more specifically, the way the corner of his mouth was pulling and his raised eyebrow - he comes to the conclusion that Riddle’s just messing with him.

“Me and you both, pal. I guess we can’t always get what we want.” Harry raises his shoulders in the universal gesture for ‘ _what can you do?_ ’ and makes his way to what he was beginning to call ‘his spot’ on the roof. “And what was that score, huh?”

Harry can nearly feel the smugness coming in waves from Riddle. “Well, we’re supposed to show our best to them, aren’t we?”

Thinking to himself about how hard he’d worked to show his mediocre to the Gamemakers, Harry shakes his head with a small, knowing smile. “Yeah, but come on. An eleven? When was even the last time a tribute got an eleven?”

“I have no clue.”

Getting a high score means two different things, in two different ways: one, it means that you’re really good, which means you’re real competition; and two, it means you’ve just acquired a target for your pretty head. Everyone knows that, and Harry wouldn’t do Riddle the disservice of thinking he’s the only one unaware of that. So despite his own curiosity over Riddle’s worries, Harry keeps his questions to himself.

And perhaps Harry is looking too much into it, but Riddle looks a lot more relaxed than he’d been on the previous night. Harry doesn’t know why, but he also doesn’t think it’d be too far-fetched to think it’s got something to do with the training scores. Perhaps, considering how District 2 seems to _love_ and actually invest in their Career tributes every year, they have high expectations for their tributes’ scores. Who knows?

“Well, I suppose congratulations are in order!”

Tilting his head for a moment in silent acceptance, Riddle then decides to surprise Harry. “To both of us. A seven is a big deal, you know. Not a score of someone who should be underestimated.” _But also not a score of someone who’s a threat_ , Harry can practically hear the accusing words come out of Riddle’s voice, what with the scrutinizing look he has in his eyes.

“That’s what I’m hoping for.” Harry throws an easy smile in Riddle’s way, more fake than real. “No counting me out just yet.”

Conversation flows as easily tonight as it had been before. It’s interesting to get to talk to Tom Riddle, Career, District 2 tribute and all that. It isn’t an idolizing sort of thing, of course not - but much like one does to the people they idolize, it’s easy to make that person you only know from afar into a character, fit them into archetypes and think that’s all there is to them. And Harry knows, he does, that he shouldn’t be getting to know any tributes too much, because that’ll only hurt him on the long run, and this really isn’t the time to be making friends, or whatever it is that he and Riddle could ever become. Not if he wants to survive, and not if he wants to keep his sanity after surviving.

Sirius had talked to Harry once, confiding to him what Harry’s father had confided only to Sirius and Harry’s mother, about how the Games impact the Victor once he makes it out. Adapting back into the new life the Capitol pushes their way feels like whiplash; the nightmares of the killings he’d committed and witnessed coming to visit him night after night; the guilt of surviving, even if, intellectually, James knew he had nothing to feel guilty of. And that was just the beginning of it.

But he can’t stop talking to Riddle now. Because for the past three days he’d only had himself to talk to until he got to chat with Riddle, and there’s only so long you can talk to yourself and only yourself before you lose your mind. No matter Hagrid’s presence, or Lavender’s, or the presence of the tributes Lavender’s allying with. He couldn’t talk to them the way he can talk to himself, the way he used to talk to Sirius, and the only one who gets close - and it’s not even that close, but it’s _something_ \- is Riddle.

“I wouldn't trust the rebels.” Riddle sounds airy, face turned to watch the landscape as he seems to like doing, but if Harry needed to bet on it, he’d bet that Riddle has actually given this more thought than he wants to give away. “Maybe I would, were they not lead by who they are.”

Curiosity bubbles inside Harry, and he tilts his head to the side to get a better look on Riddle’s face. “What do you have against Albus Dumbledore?”

“Just some doubts.” Riddle shrugs nonchalantly. “He'd supported the Games for many years before he finally _decided_ they were wrong.”

“So you think he has ulterior motives to lead the rebellion?”

“I think he only has one motivation to lead the rebellion, and that's to have power.” Riddle’s firm, certain tone practically confirms Harry’s theory. “I'm sure he doesn't give a damn about the kids that die in the Games; but being against it makes people support him, so he'll say that's why he fights. But we all know he just wants to be the next president of Panem.” He throws a look in Harry’s direction from the corner of his eyes. “Or, well, that’s what I think.”

Harry has grown up listening about the rebellion. His parents had been supportive of it and Sirius too, until James and Lily died and he’d decided he needed to prioritize Harry’s upbringing, according to him. Albus Dumbledore’s name always came with in a near-worshipping tone, although not in Sirius’ calm voice, but in the hushed whispers of those closer to Harry’s age. Not much is known about the leader of the Rebellion - see, it’s not allowed - and that would justify the fact that if Riddle’s saying the truth, most of the people isn’t aware of that.

“How do you know so much about Dumbledore and the Rebellion?” Harry tries his hardest not to sound accusing, but he knows his eyes give him away, curious and just slightly distrustful.

Riddle simply waves him off. “We know more than the rest of Panem think we do in District 2.” He doesn’t elaborate and Harry sees it for the stop Riddle’s putting on this subject.

In truth, Harry doesn’t know whether to believe Riddle or not. Logically speaking, Riddle has no reason to lie to him about that: in a few days either of them will be dead, or both - though Harry finds it unlikely. And Harry will be the first person to admit that he doesn’t know anything about Albus Dumbledore, not really.

Before Sirius died, Harry had wanted nothing more than to join the Rebellion like Sirius once had, like his father and mother before him, to fight for the end of the Games and for the improvement of the poorer District’s quality of living. Now, however, Harry just wants to survive the Games and go home. Live his life. Grow old like his family hadn’t been able to do.

“So you’ve considered trusting the Rebels?” He decides to try it from another angle, because the way Riddle had phrased his sentence truly intrigues him; and the fact that Harry picked up on it seems to intrigue Riddle, too, if the way he whips his head in Harry’s direction is anything to go by. “Isn’t all of District 2 loyal to the Capitol and, therefore, loyal to President Grindelwald?”

Riddle watches him for a moment, his look a weird thing, like he’s seeing Harry for the first time. It’s like he assesses Harry for a few moments, before he shrugs. “I don’t know all of District 2.” Harry raises an eyebrow at Riddle, who simply smirks and moves to stand up. “I can’t claim to know where their loyalties lie. I suppose you’re correct.”

It doesn’t escape Harry that Riddle ignored the first question, but Harry also knows when someone’s going to give in and when someone isn’t. Silence follows for the next few minutes, a little thicker than usual, and as though they’d previously agreed to it, they make their way to the elevator and exchange ‘good night’s as Harry steps out of the elevator onto his floor.

_How complex can someone like Tom Riddle be?_ Harry can’t help but ask himself, a little frustrated, his last thought before he falls into a welcomed slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and so they speak!!! finally!!! ahhh nothing like our favorite couple feeling _drawn_ to one another


End file.
